Sky Full of Stars
by darthsydious
Summary: Prompt-fill for Bellarsam Chrisjulittle. Molly Hooper is the 'One Who Counted' and now Moriarty knows it. She survives the kidnapping, but the emotional abuse is lasting. Shrinking from her friends, Molly feels Sherlock only stands by her out of guilt. Little does she know that this recent happenstance has made him braver, as brave as Molly when it comes to matters of the heart.
1. Chapter 1

"_And there it is sweetling, that's the worst bit. He loves you and you can see it. But he won't be bothered to do anything about it." His cruel smile fell, and Moriarty looked bored. He heaved a sigh, stamping out his cigarette. "You're not worth the effort."_

"Molly?" a cool hand touched her forehead and she jerked her head away, stopped only by the shooting pain that rippled through her body. A week she'd been Moriarty's prisoner. A week Sherlock had moved heaven and hell to stop him once and for all. A week she'd known nothing but a dank basement, lit only by a single bulb suspended from the ceiling and the hideous tortures devised by Moriarty and his right-hand-man Sebastian Moran.

"Take it easy, its okay," the voice was gentle and she blinked, eyes adjusting to the light. John's tired face came into view. "You're safe now," he soothed. "I'm sorry to wake you, but I thought you'd like to know, they set a release date for you. If everything checks out, you'll get to go home day after next."

"Home?" she echoed. She thought her home had been burned. Moriarty had spared no expense in kidnapping the woman who helped Sherlock escape.

"With Mary and me," John said. "We have the house now, and Mary's been wanting an excuse to get away from the clinic for a few months. Now she gets to play nurse for you and look after Ella before she grows up and has to go to school."

"What- what about Toby?" Molly asked. "Mary's allergic, and he'll scratch your chair." John's smile was warm, amused.

"You needn't worry about Toby. Sherlock is keeping him safe at Baker Street; he bought a cat box and a scratching pole and everything."

"Why- I don't understand," Molly blinked again, her eyes blurry. "Why would he want that? He'll just be in the way."

"Well, when we told him you'd be better off with us, he seemed pretty upset, so Mary told him he could mind your cat. Less care needed, and Toby won't mind if Sherlock dashes off on a case." John helped her take a drink, wiping her mouth after. "You should have seen him when he found out you'd been taken," John said, taking a seat beside her bed. "I've never seen him so driven; he even went to Mycroft and begged, yes, you heard me, begged for his assistance." Molly was shocked, and she didn't know where to look.

"Guilt," she blurted finally. "It must be guilt."

John looked sadly at her as she turned her head away from him.

"Molls…can't you tell us what happened? You've got to talk to someone." Carefully, he took her hand, minding the splints on her fingers. Slowly, gingerly, she pulled her hand from his grasp.

"Thank you, John, for what you're trying to do, but I'll be alright," she smiled weakly. "He didn't say anything to me that I hadn't already heard."

"Molly…" John began but was interrupted by a knock on the door.  
"Look who's been asking for her Aunt Molly all week," Mary smiled as Ella Watson caught sight of Molly and squealed, wriggling to get closer. Molly's eyes lit up and she immediately tried to sit up, to no avail.

"No, no, no," John was on his feet in a moment. "I'll adjust the bed, don't you dare move,"

"Gentle, lovey, gently, Aunt Molly isn't herself," Mary cautioned, setting the toddler on the bed.

"She's fine," Molly said. Ella crawled into the circle of her arms, gently seating herself beside Molly. For a while she contented herself in amusing the toddler, admiring her sweet face and smile. Only a week ago she thought she'd never see the Watson's again, and she happily savored the conversation between them, glad once and for all to be safe.

"Someone's got a mucky diaper," John said, catching whiff as Ella moved across the bed. "Come on you, let's get you cleaned up and see about finding supper."

"I'll run and pick something up," Mary said, getting to her feet. "Molly, what do you want?"

"Oh nothing, hospital provides and anyway I'm not very hungry."

"Nonsense," a voice from the door made them all turn. Sherlock stood holding two take-away containers. He set one down on her lap, handing her the more generously filled bag of chips, still steaming hot from the fry-oil. "Doctor's orders, you're to eat whatever you like, besides, hospital food is rubbish."

"Right," John said, looking from Molly to Sherlock. "Well, we'll go grab our dinner, and be back in a while, you'll be alright?" he directed the question to Molly, who smiled and nodded.

The door shut and the room was quiet again, save for Sherlock busying himself unwrapping the chips for her and breaking open the plastic fork and knife set.

"I made sure they put the vinegar on first, just the way you like," he said after a moment and she smiled, already putting her first bite in her mouth.

"By the way, I never thanked you," she murmured after a moment.

"It was nothing," he shrugged. "The food here is bland-"

"No…I mean, not just for dinner, I mean, I appreciate dinner too, it's good, that you remembered I like fish, but…I meant, for coming to get me." Sherlock stopped eating, looking at her carefully.

"Why wouldn't I?" She smiled at her lap, and then finally looked up at him. It didn't reach her eyes, and it seemed difficult for her to hold, so she took another bite.

"This is awfully good, Sherlock, thank you." He watched her eat with some gusto, and it pleased him, he'd been right in his assumption then, hospital food would do nothing for her appetite. There was something more behind her eyes, in the way she was behaving that concerned him. To be sure, Moriarty would have loosed hell on earth on Molly, and the traumas she had endured would probably stay with her for some time. Or at least that was what John said. Still, her conversation with him was awkward, bordering on painful. She seemed uncomfortable. Silences between them were never this awkward. They worked together so often in the lab the quiet between them was always companionable and friendly, (unless she was upset with him of course). This time though it was awkward, as if a wall sat between them and she had no desire to move it. It must simply be the hospital. She would feel much better once she got home and was situated.

"They tell me if you behave you'll be coming home," he said at last.

"Yes. John and Mary want to take me in, but…I don't think I want to put them out."

"Nonsense," Sherlock quipped. "You mustn't be on your own so soon anyway, not in your condition."

"I think I'd rather, and Mary could spend more time with Ella-"

"Molly," Sherlock was quite stern then, worried. "You're in no condition to live on your own yet, you can't even manage stairs yet." He ventured the smallest of smiles at her. "Let us take care of you." He seemed to want to say more, but Molly couldn't bear to look at him anymore. The sympathy in his eyes was too much. She could hear Moriarty in her head:

"_That's all you'll ever be to him, just one big guilt-trip. The only reason you 'matter most' is because he forgets about you, until convenient. Why else would he ask you? You don't really matter, Molly Hooper."_

Sherlock gently took her arm, soothing her.

"Never mind for now," he said quietly. His eyes were soft and gentle, and Molly felt her throat swell. He was only doing it out of guilt. Only guilt would move Sherlock Holmes to touch her. Slowly, she pulled away, red in the face and eyes swimming with tears.

She didn't see the hurt written across his face, and in his head he worried that he had lost Molly Hooper's trust, a horrible thought he had never once considered. Molly was constant in his life, and now that she was back, safe, he meant to take care of her. He loved her, and while the thought petrified him, the idea that she might pull away from him of her own accord threw him for a head-spin and it was too awful to contemplate.

~O~

Just as John promised, in two days time, Molly was released from the hospital. She spent the next month and a half resting at John and Mary's, both of whom noticed the pathologist was much changed.

"She was Moriarty's prisoner for seven days, John," Mary said quietly. "Of course she won't be herself."

"It's not just that," John said, his voice hushed. "She's different." He looked over at Molly, fast asleep on the couch. "I'm worried about her."

Sherlock visited often, happy to babysit Ella when Mary had errands to run. Besides, Sherlock knew it pleased Molly to see him playing with the littlest Watson. Now though her amusement seemed forced, or that it simply didn't please her as it used to. Not even Ella could coax a genuine smile from Molly. Sherlock even tried sending her amusing pictures of Toby, to which she usually responded with 'lol' or 'haha, cat'. Nothing that even hinted of her actual amusement.

Molly did little but rest. At night her sleep was plagued with memories of the awful week. Days weren't so bad; she sat most often in the window-seat of the living room, glad of the sun. It was at night when her heart-rate accelerated, and every creak and tick of the house set her on edge. Her appetite dwindled, and Mary worried. All Molly seemed to eat were crackers and tea. Nothing seemed to tempt her, and try as she might, Molly only poked at her food, eating what she could but ultimately leaving most of it untouched. Molly felt numb and lethargic.

"_I should have just died in that basement." _She found herself eyeing the kitchen knives and it worried her. She blinked quickly, shaking her head. Forcing herself to get dressed, she took down her coat.

"Where are you going?" Mary asked, seeing her heading for the door.

"Just for a walk," Molly replied, wincing as she swung her coat over her shoulders, shoving her arms through the sleeves.

In the cool March air she took a breath. The sun was warmer this time of year, though the chill of winter still wasn't entirely gone. Plodding along the sidewalk, she wasn't looking where she was going and nearly collided with someone.

"Sorry," she murmured.

"Doctor Hooper, it is good to see you up and about at long last." She looked up, startled that the stranger knew her name, only to realize the voice belonged to Mycroft Holmes. "May I offer you a ride?"

"No, thank you," she made to step away but he caught her arm gently, opening the door of the car.

"It would be my pleasure," he said. Having no strength to resist, she climbed in, scooting over to make room for him. She was surprised that the back seat was empty. Usually Mycroft had his PA with him.

"Where are we going?" she asked, once the car had pulled into traffic.

"Your flat was destroyed when Moriarty captured you, was it not?" he asked.

"Yeah, it was." She felt she was slouching tremendously, and she felt dumpy and unkempt, sitting across from the polished and poised Mycroft Holmes. Somehow she couldn't make herself even try to sit up straight.  
"My PA has found a new flat for you, furnished of course. They allow pets."

"Oh," she blinked stupidly. "Um…why did she do that?" Mycroft's smile seemed to be pleasant, or at least he was trying for that.

"You don't have a home, Doctor Hooper, and my brother tells me you seemed quite distressed at staying with the Watson's. One can assume it is because you prefer to be alone."

"I don't prefer that at all," she snapped, and then sat back, looking at her lap. "I just…I don't want to put anyone out. Ella will be off to school soon, and I'm nearly better now, I don't need to bother anyone anymore."

"I assure you, Molly Hooper, you are the least bothersome of anybody."

"_Because no one notices me. Stupid. Fat. Ugly. God, stop looking at me." _

Mycroft studied her as if reading her thoughts, and Molly didn't doubt he possessed that ability. She shrank even further into the collar of her coat, unable to keep from glaring at him. Mycroft did not seem offended; he merely retrieved his phone from his pocket and went about his business.

"_Good. Stop effing looking at me you colossal ass-hat."_

She blinked, realizing she was still glaring. Why was she so angry? Mycroft was being nice. Three months ago she used to bribe him with cheesecake to make him be nice to her. Now all of a sudden she was being rude? She felt a twinge of guilt, and pushing her shoes against the floor of the car, she sat upright.

"Thank you," she said finally. "For the ride." He looked up from his mobile.

"My pleasure." His smile was polite, and his usually cold eyes were soft and kind. She felt like bursting into tears, either from guilt or because someone was being nice to her when she wasn't being very nice to herself, or, for that matter, to anyone else.

The car came to a stop and Mycroft reached for the door. He helped her out and then stepped aside to let her go ahead of him up the steps to the front door. Anthea was inside, setting things up. Molly had lost almost everything in the fire; Anthea had sent a team to rescue what they could. Hearing the door open, she scurried out the back door and around to the car.

Shuffling her feet, she scuffed them along the front rug, wiping her shoes.

"It is only two blocks from Barts, the neighborhood is decent, and the upstairs tenants are rarely home, so you needn't worry about bothering them," Mycroft said. "Shall I have the Watson's send over your things?" Molly hadn't even seen the rest of the flat, but she nodded.

"Yes please." Mycroft watched her go to the living room, still in her coat, clutching the strap of her purse, and sit down, looking around the living room. He frowned, not quite sure what to make of her actions. Molly Hooper was certainly not herself. John Watson was right; there was something amiss with the pathologist.

**John and Mary's House**

"What do you mean she's moved?! You just let her?!" Sherlock roared. He'd come to visit Molly, only to find Mycroft sitting at the kitchen table, Anthea was in Molly's room, carefully packing up her things. John and Mary seemed equally upset.

"She wished for her own flat," Mycroft shrugged. "You're always asking me to repay her kindness; I've found her a perfectly lovely apartment not far from Barts, so she needn't be put out when you call her up at all hours to do your bidding."

"She's in no condition to be on her own!" Sherlock insisted.

"Her external injuries are practically healed," John broke in. "What I'm concerned about is what's going on in her head, she's not herself."

"Finally, someone said it," Sherlock gestured to John.

"Until she wishes to open up, we have no right keeping her here," Mary said. "We'll keep an eye on her, but she's got to be allowed to know her own head and heart right now. If she wants to be alone, fine, she needs time to process what's happened."

"I'll see her security detail is kept in place," Mycroft promised. Seeing Anthea come down the hall, suitcases in hand, he got to his feet. "For now, I suggest we keep it to ourselves."

"We can take those," John said, nodding to the suitcases.

"I'll go," Sherlock volunteered. Everyone turned with some surprise at him. "What?" Anthea didn't even look to Mycroft for permission. She handed the cases over to the consulting detective with a look that said _'Be nice or I'll murder you'_, and he nodded solemnly.

"I'll go with you, shall I?" John reached for his coat, looking between Sherlock and Mary.

"No I'll go myself. No need to mob the poor woman," Sherlock said and hurried out, not bothering to wait for John to complain.

~O~

The knock on her door was unexpected, and Molly groaned inwardly, realizing she had to get up. Her strength seemed completely gone lately, everything was an effort. Shuffling to the door, she checked through the peephole first before unlocking the door.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

"Anthea packed up the rest of your things," he said, pushing past her. "I decided to bring them over, oh, hm, Toby is still at Baker Street. Is the bedroom this way?" he asked, heading down the hall, knowing very well where the room would be located.

"Sherlock, don't- you needn't unpack my things," she followed tiredly after him. He'd set the suitcases down on the bed, opening them both.

"Nonsense, you'll be living out of them for weeks otherwise," he said. "Now, according to John, everyday pants and bras go on the right, but the lace fripperies-" he looked through the suitcases. "You haven't any fancy pants," he stated. She colored modestly, crossing her arms, she hunched over, as if to fold into herself.

"I don't have any," she snatched the under things out of his hands. "Waste of money anyway. Thank you, Sherlock, but I can unpack. You can even watch me if you like, but I'd rather do it myself. I don't need a sock index."

"Might do you some good," he shrugged. She slammed a drawer shut with such force the lamp nearly fell over. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, not sure what he'd done wrong. It only took him a moment to understand and he nodded, realizing. "I meant to shorten your morning routine, Molly. You're actually quite organized."

"I'm so glad I meet your standards," she grumbled, turning away from him. Her head down, concentrating on what to put where, she didn't see Sherlock's reflection in the mirror. His gaze was sorrowful, watching her drift back and forth from the suitcases to the dresser and then closet. He noted her weariness, the circles under her eyes. Her pyjamas were not clean, nor were the sheets. He sent off a quick text to Mycroft before pocketing his phone again. Molly glanced at him under hooded eyes, seeming more and more agitated by the moment. Finally, Sherlock stepped forward, taking the things from her hands.  
"Leave that be for now," he said quietly. "Go and take a shower, wash your hair." He found a clean pair of trousers and handed them to her along with a blouse. "Get dressed, and we'll go and fetch Toby."

The last thing she wanted was to go out. She didn't want to have to stare at the back of a cabbie's head, or have to make polite conversation with Mrs. Hudson. The only thing that made her move towards her bathroom was the fact that poor Toby probably hadn't had a decent meal in ages.

Once the door closed behind her, Sherlock set to work unpacking the rest of her things. He went to the linen cupboard and took down a clean set of sheets. He made quick work of the bedclothes, changing out the old linens for fresh, and then turning down the covers for Molly once she got back. Likely the only thing she'd want to do once she returned was sleep.

Just as he finished, his phone beeped.

_Understood. CCTVs of the basement have yet to be found. Setting a team on recovering them. Will notify when found. –M_

Sherlock went to the kitchen to wait for Molly; he studied the text once more, thinking. The basement that she'd been found in had been rigged for cameras. Whatever Moriarty had done to her, he'd filmed it most probably with the intent to send to Sherlock. If the tapes could be found, it would shed light on what had happened and why Molly was closing herself off from her friends.


	2. Chapter 2

Toby, safe back at Molly's flat (distinctly fatter than Molly remembered), she settled in, somewhat. She still felt out of place and wholly dissatisfied with herself. John and Mary called three or four times a week, and she did try to talk to them, but it was difficult. Eventually, she stopped answering her phone.

"_The thing is, you could tell them, and you probably would, all about what happened here," Moriarty smirked. "What mean ol' James Moriarty did to you!" he knelt down, pushing her chin up so she was forced to look up at him. "But my darling, who would care? Who on this green earth cares if you got kicked? No one cares, Molly, no one cares, especially not Sherlock Holmes." _

She could remember most of what Moriarty said to her. Some was blurred, whether she forgot it or was too out of it from Moran's beatings, she didn't know. But the words she could recall stayed with her, and she hated herself for it.

She put herself on a swing-shift at the hospital so she could avoid Lestrade and Sally. The only person who seemed to know exactly where she was at all times was Mycroft Holmes. More often than not, his PA was waiting outside of Barts at the end of her shift. She ignored the woman standing by the unmarked Rolls-Royce and hurried down the street. She passed a few bums on her way to her flat, and she dropped a little something in their cups. It hadn't occurred to her they were part of Sherlock's network, each of them reporting on her to Sherlock.

Sherlock, for his part, admitted to himself, that her change in schedule had thrown him. At least at first. Her swing shift, while annoying, was a pattern and he followed it quickly. While one can't schedule when a body would be brought in, he could certainly pop into the lab any time he wished. The problem was Molly's sudden prickly personality, her sheer will to not speak to him. Her chin was almost always in near-contact with her chest it seemed, so she wouldn't have to look at him. He brought her coffee, and she thanked him, but that was all. Once upon a time, if he had brought her coffee it would have earned him a smile with roses blooming in her cheeks. Her eyes would have sparkled at him and her features would glow. Now her pale face barely looked up at him, and her discomfort around his person seemed to radiate from her.

"Would you care to go to dinner?" he tried.

"No, thank you," she murmured.

"You haven't had anything to eat," he reminded her.

"Yes I know-"

"And your shift has just ended,"

"Yes," she agreed, shutting the lab down.

"As far as your schedule goes, it is the third week of the month, which means you have tomorrow and Sunday off."

"Correct again."

"And as it is Friday, and you haven't told me of any previous plans, I can assume you're free, are you not?"

"Aren't I always?" she snapped suddenly and he raised an eyebrow. "I'm always free, aren't I, Sherlock? God forbid I'm ever remembered somewhere, by someone who thinks more of me than out of guilt!"

"What?" he was completely baffled now. She remembered herself, and took a step away from him.

"Sorry, nothing, I'm overtired. Thank you, no, I'm not hungry."

"Please," he begged gently, and Molly dared let herself feel something as he looked at her. "Please, Molly Hooper may I take you to dinner? Nothing fancy, of course, I don't do that sort of thing, and I doubt you'd appreciate the short-notice. There is a very good Thai restaurant nearby." She found herself slipping her fingers into the crook of his proffered arm. She felt sick to her stomach, and Moriarty's words swum in her ears as Sherlock covered her hand in his, squeezing gently.

She tried to listen as Sherlock animatedly discussed his experiment. It wasn't so out of the norm for him to tell her things of that sort, but now he asked her opinion on what the outcome would most likely be and she shrugged, unsure of how to answer. He probably didn't actually want an answer.

"_Fat, dumpy little Molly Hooper," Moriarty circled around, surveying the damage Moran had done to her face. "I never could see why Sherlock liked you so much; I do see why he never spoke of you though. There's not much to you. Guilt, sweetheart, guilt moves Sherlock Holmes to protect his friends, and when he sees this, guilt will move him, as only guilt will, to befriend you. He won't really be your friend, darling."_

"Sorry," Molly let go of his arm suddenly. He looked at her, startled. He carried the bags of food; they'd decided to do take-away. "I can't, not tonight, thank you, Sherlock, really, just- never mind. Goodbye." She was gone before he could even try to hand her one of the bags of food.

Mycroft found him standing on the sidewalk, still holding the food.

"Get in, Little Brother," Mycroft said, Sherlock looked over to the car, confusion still etched on his face. "There is something you should see."

In the car, Mycroft tapped out messages on his phone while Sherlock busied himself with the passing scenery.

"I've alerted the Watson's, Anthea has sent a car for them."

"Have you found the tapes?" Mycroft remained stoic, though his eyes seemed clouded.

"The only ones Moran did not destroy. My crew has gotten through the encrypted files. You must prepare yourself."

"I wish to see the tapes alone."

"We haven't that luxury, I'm afraid. Moran rigged the tapes in case the encryption was hacked. Seems he was thinking of himself, rather than Moriarty's plans. The tapes will only play for a certain time; afterwards they will be erased. It was clever of him to think ahead, though he didn't count on Doctor Watson shooting him in the face."

**Mycroft's Office**

Mary took the chair offered, John seated beside her. Sherlock stood at the back of the room, near the door, glaring at the black screen.

"All set then?" Mycroft inquired, shutting off the lights and turning on the television.

On the screen two figures stepped into view. Molly was tied to a chair, a single bulb hung over her head illuminating the room. Moran pulled the bag from her head.

Mary saw the blow coming, just the way Moran's elbow twitched before he raised his fist and struck Molly. Years of practice. Still she jumped at the sound of knuckles meeting bone. She grabbed John's hand, feeling ashamed of her actions, but her husband only squeezed her fingers. John dared glance at Sherlock, who stared at the screen, his expression blank. The only noise in the room came from the television, Molly's cries as Moran worked her over, the noise of a belt, a rod or whatever other crude device the former marksman had contrived for the pathologist. Mycroft cleared his throat, startling them all.

"It does go on like this for some time," he said and hit 'fast-forward' until another figure came on the screen.

"_Guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt. Sherlock Holmes would probably make love to you out of guilt. He'd play the willing boyfriend out of guilt, Molly Hooper. He'll see you as the biggest neon sign to every single wrong thing he's done. And you'd accept it, wouldn't you? Because you're so desperate to have anyone show you some kind of consideration that you'd take a paltry second-rate profession of love out of guilt. Pathetic, forgettable-until-needed." He grabbed her by the hair, his fingers digging into her scalp. "I want you to know, Molly Hooper, that I'm going to kill you, but not before I've pulled Sherlock's heart out first." _

"_Leave him alone," her voice was strangled, laced with pain. _

"_Oh, sweetling," his smile was cruel, his eyes empty. "You are his heart, and I'm going to make sure he knows this is all…his…fault…" He yanked her hair, enunciating each word. When he pulled his hand away, a hank of her hair came away too and she felt sick. He flicked his fingers, brushing the strands to the floor. "Break her fingers, Seb, take your time." He disappeared out of the cold room, whistling 'Rule Britannia'. _

The screen blurred and then faded. The room was silent.

"Is…um…is that why she won't talk to us?" John asked, voice hoarse. "Can't we do anything? What can we do?" Mary shook her head.

"If this was Moriarty's treatment of her, we have to get her to a therapist or- _where's Sherlock?_" she turned with a start, realizing the Consulting Detective was not among them.

Sherlock pounded down the streets. Home, Molly would be home by now. Moriarty had been right about one thing. Molly _was_ his heart, but she was not out of him yet, not by a long shot, and he would keep her there for the rest of his life if he could. He felt bile rise in his throat, the thought of Molly believing even a word Moriarty had told her.

He skipped the elevator and took the stairs instead, much faster. Reaching her flat, he banged on her door.

"Molly! Molly, let me in!" The door opened, Molly's tired eyes were wide-open with shock.

"What in God's name- Sherlock-"

"It's not true!" he panted, "What Moriarty told you, it's not true." Without a word, Molly made to close the door, but he stopped her. "Molly, please, please," he begged. She finally lifted her gaze, meeting his. Hurt was etched across her face, disbelief and skepticism. "I have been afraid, for too long, I never- I thought I could be happy, living as the two of us always have, companionable and quiet but- Molly if this case has taught me anything, it's that I have come too close to losing you, and I cannot- I will not face that, I love you Molly Hooper, I love you." He pulled her to him, kissing her. Limp in his arms, she felt numb. Her first reaction was to accept the kiss, the spark in her chest, the fluttering in her belly; this was what alive felt like! She had isolated herself for so many weeks she'd begun to forget what human-contact was, and that she missed it.

"_Sherlock Holmes would probably make love to you out of guilt." _The voice whispered.

It was happening. God, everything Moriarty said was happening. But Sherlock's eyes when he told her he loved her…he he couldn't look like that if he were lying. The doubt was too deeply entrenched in her, and she struggled against him. Sherlock, having first felt her begin to return the embrace was surprised when she pushed him away.

"No," she stepped out of his arms, and the warmth in his chest was gone. Her body was cold and she wanted instantly to be back in his embrace, just to feel alive again and to believe even for the barest second that he was telling the truth. "Please," she choked back a sob. "Please just let me be. Stop…stop being nice to me and buying me coffee -and carrying things for me…you don't owe me anything, please know you don't- not anything."

"I don't think I owe you anything, I did those- do those things because I want to, I kissed you because I want to-" Sherlock stated, baffled. "Molly-"

"Please, please just- please let me be." Tears rolled down her cheeks, she stepped back from him. "I can't let you do this just because you feel guilty. I- I deserve more than that." She looked at her feet as she spoke, as if she didn't believe it herself.

"Molly- wait please-" Sherlock was genuinely shocked, but he had no time to question her further. She turned and ducked into her flat, the door slamming shut in his face.


	3. Chapter 3

It took Sherlock a few moments to register what she'd done. His first reaction was honest-to-goodness defeat. He blinked, staring at the closed door. He could hear Molly crying on the other side, and he leaned forward, pressing an ear to the door.

"_Just go away, go away, go away, please go away…"_

Molly sat on the cold kitchen tiles, head on her knees, trying to ignore the pleading in Sherlock's voice.

"Please open the door, Molly." There was a pause. "If I have to I'll pick the lock."

"Why are you still out there?" she asked finally.

"I had thought I made myself clear," his voice was muffled as if he were looking down.

He heard her get to her feet, so, ear still pressed to the door, he listened hard, only to realize that she was pushing a chair under the door handle.

"Molly if I have been behaving solely out of guilt for you, would I still be here?"

"Sherlock, when have you ever acted out of anything but guilt for me?"

"You're accusing me unfairly, as you don't know the cause of my actions to you, you're only stating what you perceived them to be which is rather one-sided and this is not a discussion I wish to have with a door between us!"

"It's one I'd rather not have, please leave!" Molly threw something and he jumped back at the noise.

She listened for him to react, and when he didn't she was unsettled. She expected him to act in kind, pounding on the door and so forth. Instead he was quiet, careful not to make noise as he stepped from the door.

"Very well, I won't pick the lock."

"Don't come in the window either!"

Bollocks.

She heard him shift from foot to foot.

"I won't." He answered finally.

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."

She listened for his retreating steps, and when she was sure he was gone, sank into one of the kitchen chairs with a heavy sigh. She was torn between calling after him and letting him go. But the taunts Moriarty sang in her ear were still there.

Her phone suddenly lit up, her ringtone, much louder than she'd anticipated. The noise filled the apartment. Angry at the pounding in her heart at something so stupid, she grabbed the phone, looking at the number before deciding if she wanted to answer it or not.

"Hello?"

"Is Sherlock there?" Mary sounded as if she'd been running. Molly folded an arm over her middle, confused and alarmed at the coincidence. Why would it matter to Mary if Sherlock was at her flat?

"No."

"Do you know where he is?" She tried.

"No."

Mary glanced at John, phone to her ear.

"Do you know where he went? John's looking for him."

"No I don't," Molly couldn't hold back the clipped tone. She had just about reached her limit and wanted nothing more than to be alone. "He never tells me anything." With that she hung up and shut her phone off, feeling only a small stab of guilt.

Mary looked at her phone, frustrated.

"Well?" John asked.

"I think he's been and gone."

"Bollocks." John glanced at his own phone, noticing a new text. "Mycroft says CCTVs caught him heading up to Baker Street, we'd better meet him there. Mycroft doesn't want him alone tonight."

"I'll ask Mrs. Hudson if she won't mind babysitting for the night."

**Baker Street**

When John and Mary got to 221b, Mrs. Hudson's assurance that she would keep Ella for the night, they found the consulting detective's flat to be eerily quiet.

"Think he came and went?" John asked.

"If you're going to talk about me, kindly do so in a loud enough voice so I can hear you." They rounded the kitchen table and found Sherlock curled up on the sofa, back to the room.

"Sherlock…" Mary began. She looked to John, who sat in his chair, settling in for the long night ahead.

"You might as well relax, John," Sherlock said quietly. "I'm not going anywhere."

"We're to see you don't."

Mary tugged the hassock by the fireplace over to the couch, seating herself.

"What happened, Sherlock?"

For a long time no one spoke. John thought Sherlock had gone into his mind palace, he was so still. After a while though, he shifted his feet, uncomfortable.

"She doesn't want me."

John raised his eyebrows, looking wide-eyed from Mary to Sherlock.

"What do you mean?" Mary asked.

"She doesn't. Want me." Sherlock bit out. "She's got it in her head that I…that my feelings for her are solely based on guilt and nothing more."

Mary looked from her husband to her friend, biting her lip.

"Have you tried talking to her-"

"Yes of course I have!" he snapped. He was on his feet in moments, pacing the room. "It doesn't- it didn't help, she doesn't believe me. Moriarty is in her head now, even after he's dead and gone. She won't have me." Sherlock flopped into his chair, head in his hands.

John looked at his wife, and then at his best friend. It was not to be borne, Sherlock Holmes defeated! He was giving up, he was actually giving up and John felt his stomach lurch, the thought of two dear friends who clearly loved each other being deprived of that love. And all because of the likes of Moriarty?

"No."

Sherlock lifted his head, finally looking at John. His eyes were red rimmed, and to be frank, he looked like hell.

"Sorry?"

"I said, no." John glanced again from Mary to Sherlock. "No I won't accept that. It's not what she wants, and certainly not what she needs right now."

"I'm so glad you know exactly what is going on inside Molly Hooper's head, John, do share with the class what she's had to endure the past four months."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," John argued. "She's hurting, yes, she's got every right to doubt your feelings for her- whatever they may be-" Sherlock began to protest but John went on. "You haven't treated her all that well in the past, Sherlock, and you've made it no secret that of all the women in the world, she is not one you prefer."

"When?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

John blinked, a mannerism Sherlock had come to recognize as the good doctor doing his very best to control himself. Before John could react, Mary stood up between them.

"What he means is, you haven't given anyone, least of all Molly, any indication of your feelings for her, up until now. Seeing as we now know some of Moriarty's treatment of her, is it any wonder why she doubts you?"

Sherlock stepped away from them, hands behind his back.

"I…admit…my feelings were not as apparent as hers were…not for some time…it wasn't until after the case with The Woman was over and solved that I had…altered my feelings for Molly."

"So long ago?" John asked, quite shocked. Sherlock affixed him with a weary look.

"Not everyone has to shout their affections from the rooftops, John."

"Okay, okay-" Mary again stepped between them. "Let's focus on what we do know: Molly feels she can't trust Sherlock's feelings, correct?" The men nodded, one more sullen than the other. "So how do we go about getting her to trust him?"

"Molly loves him," John stated matter-of-factly. "I think we can all agree on that. But the week she was holed up with Moriarty did more than enough damage that even four months of Sherlock being nice to her hasn't made even a small change in her mistrust of him."

"Right." Mary folded her hands together. "There's only one thing to do." Sherlock snorted in derision.

"Yes," he agreed. "Nothing. Molly will not see me, she doesn't believe me, ergo I have failed and there is nothing to be done." If ever he had looked like a kicked puppy it was now. Mary pitied him, but she could only take so much of his self-pitying attitude.

"No," she said. "You've done the proper thing first, you took things slowly, but now I think it's time you sat with her and had it all out with her. She's isolated herself enough, and she needs someone to make her listen. Sometimes…sometimes it's not what they think is best for them that matters most. Sometimes you need someone to open the door for you."

"Mary…" Sherlock began uncertainly. God. Every time he shut his eyes he saw Molly again. Sobbing, pushing away from him, _begging_ for him to leave her alone. Utter rejection. "I am…" he trailed off, unable and unwilling to say how frightened he was. Mary smiled gently, putting her arm around him.

"I know. But think of this: Molly needs you, whether she knows it or not. She needs _you_, Sherlock."

Somewhat numb, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears, he felt John and Mary gently pull him to his feet, pushing him to the shower. He heard one of them say it wouldn't hurt to clean himself up first. Somehow, he managed to shower and shave and he felt a little more human. Whether they heard his fitful sobs in the shower, neither said. What he cried for, he couldn't honestly say, whether it was at last a reaction to the CCTVs of Molly, or her pushing him away, or the fear of Molly rejecting him again or perhaps all three. Sherlock didn't linger on why he allowed himself the release, but he felt a little better for it.

"Would you like us to go in with you?" Mary asked. He shook his head, pulling his coat on.

"No, thank you. I think I would prefer to go alone." He stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of how to depart. John couldn't remember a time he'd ever seen Sherlock so unsure of himself, so painfully unaware of how to proceed.

"Just…tell her what you feel," John said at last. Sherlock looked up at him, doubt in his expression. "Tell her all the things you've got stored away in that mind palace of yours that have to do with her, all the good things you love about her, the things that will make her remember who she was before Moriarty."

Slowly, Sherlock nodded. He left as quietly as he'd entered 221b, leaving a very concerned John and Mary behind.

**Molly's Flat**

Curled in a ball, she stared at the far wall, willing herself to fall asleep. She wanted to forget that day. Forget all about Sherlock asking her to dinner, about him kissing her. More than anything she wanted to forget the look on his face when she shut the door on him. There had to be some mistake. Sherlock wouldn't be hurt if she shut the door on him. Annoyed…but not hurt.

_Tap-tap-tap _

"Molly?" a muffled voice behind her made her lift her head. She turned over, switching the lamp on and rolling up the window shades, too surprised to tell him to go away. She stared at him through the shut window. "You made me promise not to pick the lock."

Sherlock Holmes was sitting on her fire escape like the bloody scene from West Side Story.

Good grief.

"May I come in?" he asked.

Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself unlocking the window, pushing it up and stepping back so he could climb in.

"What do you want?" she asked. He turned from shutting and locking her window.

"I think we ought to talk." She didn't move, so he dared a step forward. "Please." When she said nothing, he put his hands behind his back. "Very well, then I shall talk."

Molly watched as he went about pulling off his gloves and setting his coat aside. She noticed he set it on the end of her bed, careful not to disturb Toby.

"Mycroft recovered the footage from the basement."

Molly blinked. That was not what she expected him to say, and she felt her heart lurch.

"I-I don't – no…" Words tumbled out of her mouth and she felt clumsy and awkward. What he must have thought of her! That was all she needed was his pity now! She stumbled away from him. He caught her, gently maneuvering her to sit on the hassock by her dresser.

"Steady," his voice was gentle, calm, and heaven help her she dared look at him. "I am not sorry I saw them," he said at last. "I understand now why you are so mistrustful of me, and perhaps I deserve it, but I do want a chance to at least tell you that he's wrong-" She was on her feet, pulling away from him and he continued. "He is wrong, Molly, and you know it."

Stopping in the doorway, her fists clenched and unclenched.

"He's wrong." Sherlock repeated.

"_And he'll tell you how much he lo-o-o-o-v-e-s you, right away, won't he? He'll be so riddled with guilt. Your dying breath, he'll swear he loves you and then poof! You'll be gone. The last thing you'd hear is Sherlock's guilty love confession." _

Molly shut her eyes forcing back the words Moriarty sang in her ears. She _wasn't_ dead though. Moriarty had made one mistake. He had not calculated that now with Mary Watson on her side, they would find her much faster. And come to think of it, Moriarty was wrong about another thing. Sherlock didn't swear anything to her. In fact the past four months he had been nothing but tender to her. He had acted out of the ordinary, bringing her coffee, asking her to dinner and being generally polite and courteous to her, but he had made no claim of his affections to her.

"He was right about some things." Molly spoke at last, her voice hoarse. "You do feel guilty."

"I do," Sherlock admitted. "But I would never promise myself to you out of guilt, I hold you in too high-esteem for that." Her shoulders hunched, her determination wavering. "Will you look at me, please?" She shook her head. Too afraid that if she turned around, he'd fill her head with lies and she'd fall again for him.

"Do you remember the night I jumped?" He asked quietly. Molly shrugged in response, wiping her nose, still not turning to face him. "I told you to leave me be, afterwards." He paused a moment, thoughtful. "I told you not to touch me, and I wouldn't look anywhere but the wall." Slowly, she lifted her head, turning to him. He was staring into the middle distance, lost in the memory. To Molly's surprise, the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly, his mouth forming the fondest of smiles. "You held me all night."

"I didn't know what you would do." He looked up, realizing she was facing him.

"I don't know what you're going to do," he confessed. "But…I do know I…would like very much to hold you." She opened her mouth, about to decline, but he pressed on: "Not out of guilt, not because I feel that I 'owe you something'. I want to because I love you and you are upset." When she didn't move, he ventured forward. His arms came around her slowly, careful not to make sudden movements, he drew her against him. He felt her take a shuddering breath, and she sagged in his arms. Before her knees could reach the ground he lifted her up, cradling her against him. He murmured her name like a prayer against her neck, carrying her to her bed. He curled around her as she cried, covering her like a shield. "You have been brave for so long," he murmured as she cried fitfully. "My brave Molly. My absolutely brilliant Molly."

"M'scared, Sherlock," she managed through her tears. Her fingers wet from wiping her eyes, she dared reach out, touching his mouth, feeling up over his nose and his eyelids. "Is this real? Are you really here?"

"I'm here," he promised. "I love you Molly Hooper, and I will stay for as long as you will have me." Her arms slowly came around him, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket as she pulled herself closer to him.

After a long while, Molly spoke again.

"Mycroft said that I should see a therapist."

"Do you want to?" Sherlock asked. She seemed small again.

"No." He hesitated, biting back the urge to say she didn't have to then.

"I think you should." She looked up at him, surprised and somewhat hurt. "I don't know all of what happened to you," he continued. "But…you should tell someone, someone who won't follow up by shooting out a wall or getting dead drunk, would be preferable." She managed a half-smile then. "I am certain my brother has screened each and every one, you will be quite safe."

"Do you promise not to read the file?"

"I promise."

Quiet again, and Molly tilted her head up to look at him.

"What are you looking at, Miss?" he asked quietly, his tone light and teasing. She suddenly averted her gaze, losing her courage.

"Will you stay until I'm asleep?" she asked softly.

"I will stay all night if you wish." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Go to sleep, Molly. I'm here."

"You're always here," she answered drowsily. He smiled above her.

"Molly?"

"Hm?" her voice was soft, she was falling asleep.

"Do you love me?"

"I've always loved you." Her tired voice gained some strength. She shifted and he moved with her so they lay more comfortably on their backs, her arm thrown over his chest, hugging him.

For the first time in months, Molly Hooper's sleep was deep and peaceful. In the moments between asleep and awake, she felt arms drawing her carefully towards them, gently squeezing before relaxing again. The taunting voice of Moriarty was distant now, it didn't seem as real anymore. She felt lips press against her shoulder, and she shifted, unable to stop a smile from spreading.

There were still times she worried that Moriarty had been right all along. Therapy helped, more than she realized it ever could. Sherlock patiently moved at her pace, though he was more aware now to take her hand, offer his arm and hold her close when he felt she required it, or even wanted it. That helped too, Sherlock was earnestly persistent, in his own particular way. Deep down, Molly knew Sherlock wouldn't lie to her, and as the weeks passed and her therapy progressed, she saw how deeply Sherlock felt for her. And finally when in twelve months, Sherlock quietly slipped a ring on her finger in the middle of 221b, she could say, without any doubt, he loved her, and she loved him.


End file.
